Flotsam, Jetsam, Lagan| Poems, Stories, Drama and Essays
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University of Montana ScholarWorks at University of Montana Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers Graduate School 1993 Flotsam, jetsam, lagan| Poems, stories, drama and essays Craig Brian Rayle The University of Montana Follow this and additional works at: https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd Let us know how access to this document benefits ou.y Recommended Citation Rayle, Craig Brian, "Flotsam, jetsam, lagan| Poems, stories, drama and essays" (1993). Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers. 2377. https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd/2377 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Graduate School at ScholarWorks at University of Montana. It has been accepted for inclusion in Graduate Student Theses, Dissertations, & Professional Papers by an authorized administrator of ScholarWorks at University of Montana. For more information, please contact [email protected]. RAVLE- Maureen and Mike MANSFIELD LIBRARY TheMontana University of Permission is granted by the author to reproduce this material in its entirety, provided that this material is used for scholarly purposes and is properly cited in published works and reports. ** Please check "Yes " or "No " and provide signature** Yes, I grant permission ^ No, I do not grant permission Author's Simature Any copyiiic for conimercial purposes or fmancial gain may be undeitaken inor's explicit consent. FLOTSAM • JETSAM • LAGAN POEMS, STORIES, DRAMA AND ESSAYS by Craig Brian Rayle B.A., Utah State University--Logan, 1985 Presented in partial fullfillment of the requirements for the degree of Masters of Fine Arts, Creative Writing University of Montana 1993 Approved by: C linn an r^i Date 0 UMI Number; EP34926 All rights reserved INFORMATION TO ALL USERS The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. In the unlikely event that the author did not send a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion. UMI' D>sa«rtatk>n Publfshing UMI EP34926 Published by ProQuest LLC (2012). Copyright in the Dissertation held by the Author. Microform Edition © ProQuest LLC. All rights reserved. This work is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code ProQ^sf ProQuest LLC. 789 East Eisenhower Parkway P.O. Box 1346 Ann Arbor, Ml 48106- 1346 1' FLOTSAM • JETSAM • LAGAN Table of Contents: Bedrock Page 1 Butternut Page 3 Prom Night Page 9 Buford's Wife Page 10 Crooked Lake Delton Page 35 Killing Page 68 All of Hemingway's Children Page 125 1 BEDROCK We drove, not saying anything that memory could hold. Not on the ride from the airport across the mancos shales, not as we switchbacked down the Flint Trail, not crossing the empty redness of Standing Rocks. I remember now mostly Jasper Canyon. Trying to show you something that I loved, that you could not love better. Leading your once-heroic legs, legs that had kicked the winning points, legs now shaking, stumbling down the crevassed pitch. We knew in that moment that Park Service greens made me more fit than you, here without your Marlboro lit professional luncheons. Time had finally turned in my favor, As hand in hand I pulled you down, through geology. Moving between narrow walls, measured by hundred-foot falls, finding eventually-small, crumbled ledges. Prince's plume, cliffrose, beard tongue, datura. Black varnish everywhere on the stone. Water, forced by a million small, now-gone rains. In the bottom, it is always-cool, shaded, silent. Trees, older than our now dead grandfathers, hug for moisture, search for rare soil. We stoop beneath these grandfather limbs, push past willow, pinyon, single-leaf ash, negotiate our way around boulders larger than the room we shared as children. A route forced by drainage, young waters forced to the surface. Still more ancient unmoving rocks lie below here, beneath this cool, silent always desert-carving water. 1 In time, side canyons fall together. Trees no longer remain in a wash so many times ripped by flood, flood gathered from country that cannot take rain as fast as it falls. Only litter. Leaves, husks, bark. Seeds maybe, Dammed behind an occasional root. We walk as we must, in full sunlight, the water stolen now. Then we walk again-deeper, trapped again in the cut stone of a now-dead sea you and I; sand, mud, clay. Finally, reaching bedrock, water is forced again, small, beautiful, tentative over the fluted lime, over a final cliff, crashing into one last pool of its own making. And then only sand, one last pinyon, the boulders smaller, finally ground down, brought here, I am sure, by the torrents of this terrible, unreliable stream in which we now together stand. In the morning, I try to make my way over the edge to some river which I only know is there. But you are still afraid, still watching me, still stopping me. And I am still obeyant, cinching down my load, following your tired legs as they lead us out but not home over a route we both now know. 3 BUTTERNUT Our family, we found this cat. It was nice enough, but it had been a stray, so it was all screwed up. It was very skittish, and you had to approach it real slow. You couldn't Just pet it. You had to cajole it into liking you, or it would run and hide under the couch or something. And about once a week, one of my friends, who didn't know any better, would try to grab kitty. Just to pet her I mean, and the crazy thing would bite the hell out of him. When that happened, you'd best hope that Mom wasn't around. When she saw that, she was all over you. First she would apologize--profusely. "Oh no! I'm soooorry." she would say "I hope he didn't hurt you. Oh my, look at your hand. What a thing." Then she would lie for the cat. "She didn't mean to hurt you. She's really a very nice cat." Next it was the big-time worrying. "Oh, we had better get that cleaned up. Right away. I know! Let's you and I go wash that out with some nice clean soap." She would grab my friends by their little arms and leverage them into the guest bathroom, talking the whole way. "Cat bites are the worst," she'd say. "Oh, ... you didn't know that? Yes. The dirtiest bites you can ever get. When you look at the 3 4 infection rate, cats are worse than rattlesnakes. But don't worry," she'd sing. "We'll scrub and scrub and scrub until all those germs are gone." That's what I remember. Mom in the bathroom, scrubbing my friends to death, meaning to be helpful the whole time. "All better?" she would say when she was done. It was like a command and a question combined. "All better!" And that was the end of the visit. My friends always went home after that ordeal. And there I'd be, left alone on the couch with my feet up so the damn cat couldn't get to me. Mom, of course, would come back into the living room and look at me, her face flushed, her eyes watery, prepared to deliver her recurring moral lesson. She did it all with questions: "Why honey? Has Butternut ever done anything to deserve this? Don't you think if you were nicer to her she would be nicer to you?" Then she would fish around under the couch. It didn't matter that she was putting runs in her nylons or that the shag rug was leaving indentations in her face or even that her skirt was riding halfway up her butt. All that mattered was kitty. "Butternut? Butternut?" She would stop for a moment and poke her head back out from under the couch. "You and your friends should be ashamed of yourselves." Then she'd fish some more. "Come here kitty- No one's going to hurt you ever again." 5 God, I hated that cat. Poor little pathological Butternut. I hated her so much that after six months I hung her. Now don't Jump to conclusions. I mean, I was only eight years old. And I didn't do the actual hanging, I just helped. Les Farrance did the hanging. And it wasn't even a hanging by the neck until dead or any of that. And it wasn't even really pre-meditated. Not really. We, Les and I, were doing something in the driveway. Shooting baskets maybe, I don't remember. I do remember when Les first noticed Butternut laying on the still-warm hood of my father's Cadillac. "I bet I can sneak up on her," he said. "You're full of shit," I said. Shit was a big word that year and I used it for all it was worth—SHIT. After that, Les had to go through with it. His plan was to sneak to the middle of the garage between the Cadillac and the Olds, then drop under the Caddy, belly his way up to the very front, pop up and grab Butternut. It was a good plan, but it wasn't gonna work. Screwed up as Butternut was psychologically, she could hear almost anything. She could hear the electric can opener opening her cat food from three rooms away. She could hear mice. So when Les started shimmying around under the Caddy, Butternut simply got up and retreated to the roof of the car.